Laundry: A Case Study in Futile Hope
Laundry is always a tomorrow problem that rolls into infinite tomorrows. It’s the alpha and the omega of chores. You don’t remember how it started because it’s always been there and you don’t think you’ll ever live to see the end of it because you probably won’t. Laundry is a Sisyphean empire, and we all live here.
When you finally think you’ve caught up, there’s always more: forgotten towels, rogue socks, mystery cloth items demanding to be washed. Finishing laundry is an illusion in the Matrix of drudgery. It’s a collection of things I never asked for and never wanted like the spoon collection my mom decided that I would have as a teenager. She started to collect spoons for me everywhere we went. By eighteen, I had enough to put every 70-year-old spoon enthusiast to shame.
I never asked for it; it just happened to me.
Like laundry.
Once, I let it pile up so badly I had three baskets full and a box of socks. It took an entire summer to climb out. You’d think I learned.
I did not.
The current pile is slowly forming a makeshift comforter at the foot of my bed—an ecosystem made of socks, hoodies, and running gear. The literal fabric of our lives.
The hardest part about laundry, besides all of it, is the inefficiency of the entire process. Even with a washer and a dryer it’s such a chore. At least with dishes you can use paper plates but you can’t wear paper clothes.
I’ve considered it.
The washing part is fine because all I have to do is put the laundry in. It’s the best part of the process because for twenty minutes it’s simply not my problem. The dryer is where I really have issues. You can convince yourself laundry doesn’t exist as long as it stays in there. You can live this lie for days. Weeks. And I have. I am right now as I type this.
But it’s not the end of the process. It’s an illusion.
Eventually, you will have to deal with it. Despite it being the 21st century we are not equipped like The Jetsons. Folding still requires opposable thumbs and the will to live.
Sometimes I fantasize about a clothes line, imagining it might make me more accountable. But I know myself. A clothes line would pose its own challenges. While I’m confident I would hang the clothes out to dry, collecting them after they are dry would be the issue. They’d marinate in the sunshine for days and weeks collecting dust, debris, and spiders looking to relocate to something more economical and vibrant. By the time I got around to it, the clothes would be tangled in an entire spider society including condos, web highways, and a functioning municipal system. I’d have to ask myself if it’s morally right to destroy an entire civilization just to collect a sweater and some dress pants?
So, for a clothes line to work, I would need hefty winds to get me out there. And it would only be because I don’t want to have to go around the neighbor’s trees collecting my bras like lingerie ornaments.
I’m not that kind of girl.
Most weeks the laundry sits in the dryer. Mid-process. Occasionally something must be washed, if that’s the case the new load can be added to the dried load with the understanding that the dry clothes will welcome the new, wet clothes with open pockets and help dry them faster. I don’t really know if it’s true but that’s what I tell myself because I hate doing laundry. It’s a Sisyphean empire, we all live here, and we are not The Jetsons.